


Daddies' Little Girl

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, badass parenting, no one messes with their little girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is good enough for their daughter, and they'll go to great lengths to make sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddies' Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful shaney, for [this prompt](http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=760534#t760534) at ghotocol-kink.

Amelia’s seventeen and no stranger to first kisses, or seconds or thirds for that matter. Under the bleachers, before first period French, in the car with the music turned low, but never, ever where her parents can find out, because in their eyes she’ll never grow up (and even if she does, no one will ever be good enough). 

But at seventeen she thinks she’s found that guy, the one who makes her feel beautiful and precious and safe. She wants to shout it from the rooftops and she wants to wear it on her sleeve. But most of all, she wants her dad, both of them, to want it for her.

“Jacob, huh?” Will chews his asparagus and eyes Ethan across the table.

“Yes, Jacob. He and his parents were at the school fundraiser last year, remember? His mom baked that amazing cherry pie.”

“Jacob.” Ethan hums thoughtfully, eyes on Will, and they’re doing that _thing_ they do, conversing without words, and she stifles a long-suffering sigh.

“He’s that boy in Twilight, right? The one who runs around shirtless all the time.”

“Yes, the character’s name is Jacob,” she answers calmly, resisting the urge to faceplant in her roasted potatoes.

“See? I can be hip.” Will points his fork at her, lips twitching. 

“Dad.” A whine starts to crawl out of her throat. She turns to Ethan. “ _Dad_.”

“Yes, okay, he can come over to study for the Calculus final. We won’t intrude,” Ethan says, by which he means _we have tricks up our sleeves to make him sufficiently terrified so he’ll never set foot in this house again_ and god, she never learns her lesson.

*

They’ve never told her what they used to do for a living, only that they worked for the government and that some things are meant to be buried. She knows they’d traveled far and wide, and that they met in Moscow on a cold night by the riverbank (it’s clearly a half-story and still Will always smiles like Ethan never tells it quite right). 

Uncle Benji lets things slip sometimes, purely unintentionally if his subsequently horrified looks are anything to go by. Certain things (car chases, arms dealers, a Serbian hit squad), paired with the number of guns stashed in the discreet spaces of their house, that have led her to conclude that her parents were either mobsters or international superspies. Unfortunately neither occupation bodes well for her love life.

They’d run a background check on the first boy she brought home and suggested he test out the polygraph they kept in the basement, bought at a garage sale they said and she’d wondered whose leg they were trying to pull. Mike didn’t take them seriously and to this day she can’t decide if he’d been brave or stupid.

The second boy was Ben and she still remembers the sunflowers he brought when he’d met Ethan, Will, and Will’s collection of throwing knives. She’d run downstairs to the sharp thud of steel embedding into the drywall. The flowers had been arranged in a vase and placed in the middle of the breakfast table.

Jason was the third. He ended up being a homophobic tool so she’d brought him home to widen his world a little. Ethan had served tea, the kind his mom loved when he was a boy, brewed in a pot and poured into the delicate cups Will bought him three Christmases before. Or so she had heard. Jason ran the other way every time she saw him after that, and rumor had it she’d kicked his ass after he’d gotten handsy.

This time, though, this time is different, and she makes that clear even when she knows it might be an exercise in futility. When the doorbell rings that night, she tells them one more time to behave, for her sake, before she answers it, cheeks warm with anticipation. Jacob just stands on the doorstep and smiles at her for a moment before walking in, and they greet each other without touching. The way he says her name makes her think of the kind of girl her parents have raised her to be. She reaches up to straighten the collar of his shirt.

“Jacob. Harris, right? You manned the third table from the door at the spring fundraiser. Your mom’s pies are delicious. Cardamom, I think, is her secret.” Will smiles and Amelia’s pretty sure he’s testing Jacob in that unfathomable way of his she attributes to his life before her, even before Ethan (though she imagines, by now, they know each other’s secrets through and through).

“Yes, sir.” Jacob stumbles a little, taken aback, then recovers admirably. “If I told you, my mom would have to kill you.”

Ethan laughs, Will sticks out his hand, and Amelia can’t stop smiling because she thinks this is it, she doesn’t even have to resort to Plan B or C or D, they already like him. She can feel the conviction in her bones. 

They promise to study, and they study, side by side on her bed with their thighs and elbows touching. Jacob kisses her once, sweetly, with his fingertips against her cheeks and something in her feels alight, strangely and extraordinarily unfamiliar. When he leaves, hand lingering in hers until the distance between them becomes too much, she thinks that this is what it’s like to be lucky.

She’s past the age where her parents would come into her room to say good night before bed, so tonight she goes to theirs, peeks through the open door and raises her hand to knock. She pauses when she spots them sitting on the bed, back to chest, cheek to cheek, as Ethan kneads Will’s shoulders, lazy movements meant to lull him towards sleep.

“We’ve done a good job.”

“Yea. Yea, we have.”

She doesn’t mean to spy but something draws her closer, the hushed words maybe, clearly spoken about her, or the depth of their shared contentment that makes her imagine it comes down to more than just luck.

“I like this one. He’ll be able to keep up with her. She’s just like you, you know, doesn’t know when to quit.”

Ethan chuckles into the curve of Will’s neck, hands persistent.

“You love that I keep you on your toes.”

“Now that I don’t have to leap off tall buildings to save your ass. Maybe.”

She can’t hear Ethan’s murmured reply but she guesses it’s persuasive enough that Will turns for a slow, open-mouthed kiss, fingers reaching up to ghost along Ethan’s jaw as Ethan splays a long hand against his chest. And in that moment Amelia’s acutely aware of what she hopes for them, and selfishly for herself; she tries to contain it within her lungs and feels its enormity. 

The sight of them stays with her after she retreats to her bedroom, and sometime in the middle of the night she wakes and feels wetness on her cheeks, heart impossibly full.


End file.
